


Building Bridges, Trying Not To Drown: Foundation

by relic_amaranth



Series: Building Bridges, Trying Not To Drown [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Coping, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-01 21:05:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16291799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relic_amaranth/pseuds/relic_amaranth
Summary: I roll out of my blanket and go unlock the door.Steve is there, blond hair mussed, breathing heavily. Absently I wonder if he ran from the bridge. He looks me up and down. “You look…like you’re having a bad day.”I lean back, grab the handheld mirror from the entry table that’s currently covered in all sorts of shit (like the rest of my apartment) and I hold it up to his face.orTwo sad people, trying their best in different ways.





	Building Bridges, Trying Not To Drown: Foundation

**Author's Note:**

> ***Trigger Warnings: Depression, suicidal ideation, mention of self-injury (specifically cutting), thoughts of being nothing/worthless
> 
> General Warnings: Ups and downs can be jarring, first-person PoV, tense-shifting between past and present depending on scene, time and location are vague, kind of a crummy depiction of texting because I couldn’t make up my mind on how I wanted to do it (I’ll get better), written in chunks over months and kind of reads like it
> 
> A/N: One of the reasons I like fanfic so much is because I like the idea of being able to experiment with stuff. That said: this is a weird one. Not necessarily a bad one but strange and definitely an experiment. Part venting and part not. I don’t have evidence on hand, it’s purely an emotional reaction to watching the MCU character, but I just look at Steve Rogers and think he is, at heart, a sad dude, and whether through him or at him, I always want to play around with that. So I do. This is my second story using Steve Rogers to comfort a vague character that I’m leaving open as a reader insert. A lot of this is vague, actually, so don’t look too hard at the plot (if there is one). If you like it, great, if not, that’s fine too; you’ll probably know pretty quick if this is your thing or not.

 

The water was black in the night, only revealing its shape with the aid of wind and reflected lights. It looked nice. Endless. Oblivion. I wanted so badly to sink into it. I wanted…

“Cold night.”

I flinched at the sudden voice, and glanced to the side. He was big, bundled up, and facing me with his body while he leaned on the railing and pretended to look elsewhere. I should have been concerned for my safety– he was huge and looked _strong_ – but I was so far past caring that I didn’t even respond. I just went back to staring out at nothing. And being nothing.

“Is that jacket warm enough?”

Great. Mr. Chatty. Still, I had no energy to engage, so I didn’t. He was a stubborn one though; he didn’t leave, didn’t seem bothered by my lack of response. “As cold as it is, though, I love the air when it’s like this; it’s refreshing.”

It would have been polite to make a sound. To nod. But I couldn’t manage any of it. All I could do was stare. And so I did. For hours, until the world around me began to stir. A runner skimmed by, the sky began to lighten. I stood straight, turned away from the man, and walked home.

 

* * *

 

 

I tried.

When I couldn’t sleep, I put on comedy shows. Movies that were normally comforting. Music that I liked. Nothing could make it through the cloud. My tongue was locked in place and tasted sour in my mouth.

I ventured out to the bakery I liked. It was in a small area with a mix of food places and at this time of morning it would be lively, but I could handle the background noise. The people behind the counter weren't that talkative, and that was the important bit.

I picked out a lot of things, enough to last a couple of days, paid, and left.

And saw the man from just a few hours previous, sitting at a table with some other people. In the daylight he looked…familiar somehow. But I didn’t look hard enough to examine why. He noticed me staring and smiled brightly, and I left immediately, my chest curling into a knot at the idea of having to talk to him.

 

* * *

 

That wasn’t the last time I saw him. I went back to the bridge to look at the water, to try and draw some calm. To fantasize.

I wasn’t surprised when he showed up. I still wasn’t…much of anything, really. He leaned next to me, closer, but faced the water like I did.

“Are you getting enough sleep?” he asked. I didn’t know why he bothered. It was like talking to a doll. Or a floor. A doll probably had more life than me.

“The forecast said it’ll rain soon, but it looked so clear today I can’t–”

The first few drops fell as soon as he said ‘rain’ and more followed so quickly that there was a steady stream by the time he stopped talking. Rain was…nice. But even that wasn’t enough to lift me.

“I guess I’m bad luck,” he chuckled. It wasn’t so bad, really. It helped me stay awake. But the man shifted anxiously, like he expected me to leave. I could have told him he’d be disappointed. I could have told him to go home. But all the same, I couldn’t.

“Aren't you cold?”

He’d be surprised to find out what I couldn’t feel. Cold was– well, physiologically, yes, of course it must have, but at the same time it didn’t _register_. Nothing did. Nothing. Nothing.

I was nothing.

He was talking but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. A void was crawling across my mind, drowning everything with dark, rushing water.

 

* * *

 

I went to the bagel shop the next morning and only looked around as much as I _had_ to to make sure no one was there to bother me. He wasn’t there at all, thankfully, so I got my breakfast in peace.

Later on I passed out and it was good. I slept. Until I couldn’t.

After two hours of tossing and turning I got up, got dressed, and got out.

I was so tired that the water looked like a nice, inviting blanket. A nice, inviting blanket that would swallow me whole.

“Getting an early start?”

This was a different strange man. In running clothes and breathing heavily. So at least he wasn’t as strange as the other one.

I turned my head back to the water. Soon it would be light and I would have nowhere to hide but home.

I didn’t want to go home.

“Steve said you weren't much of a talker,” the man said and leaned against the rail next to me in a familiar manner. Steve? I frowned. Who was–

Oh. That guy.

I looked back across the water for another handful of minutes, then turned and left. He followed me down streets, around corners, all the way to my home. It should have been concerning, how easily I had accepted _two_ stalkers, but I still…didn’t…care.

That night I got up the energy to take out the garbage. Well, the garbage already in the trash can, if not the scattered bits across the apartment. Still, it was something.

When I opened the front door something fell. I stared at the piece of paper for a moment, then went to retrieve it. On the little bit of cardstock were two phone numbers– belonging to ‘ _Sam Wilson (the handsome devil from this morning)_ ’ and ‘ _Steve Rogers (big blond puppy)_.’

I could have thrown it away. The trash bag was in my other hand. I would never call them anyway. But I slipped the paper in my back pocket, shut the door, and trudged out with the garbage. The _other_ garbage.

When I got back I put the names and numbers into my phone. It felt strange to have actual contacts in my phone. Strange and…

Oh.

Feeling.

Well _shit_.

 

* * *

 

“I haven’t seen you for a few days.”

The streetlight is far but so bright it almost hurts. It’s sharp against my eyes, like a knife just beginning to slide in. I haven’t slept at all and I’m already twitchy, but the fresh wounds on my stomach-chest-legs-arms sting with every little movement. They keep me in my body, in this complete void of night and nothing.

I’m still here.

Still here.

Still.

“Did you get hurt?” Steve asks, concern and all and everything he is. Why. _Why_. “You're moving a little stiff.”

I bite my tongue, just in case, and stare resolutely out at blank water. Eventually, he will tire of this; he’ll get frustrated, or angry, or bored; he will mutter, or call me names, or walk away in silence and forget. I will come here everyday until I have the courage to jump. I will bring something heavy in case I lose my nerve. The world will continue to exist without me.

One day I won't hurt anymore.

“I used to come look at the water a lot. When I first…came back.” He sighs. “It seemed like a nice idea. To be gone. But drowning didn’t stick the first time either.”

That’s interesting. The water looks so nice that it’s also disappointing. _Maybe drowning isn’t the way to go_. But with weights, no witnesses, and no nosy stalkers to see me home (or not), I can do it better.

I hope.

 

* * *

 

The next day, a black hole sat on my chest and kept me in bed. I felt wrung out. My cuts itched and were stiff, but did nothing for me. Scabbing was the worst.

I drifted in and out of sleep. That night I picked up the phone and stared at it. And stared.

And then.

‘Not going to the bridge tonight,’ I sent to Steve.

I put my phone on the charger and turned to face it so I could keep browsing. Steve replied fairly quickly.

Steve: Okay :) Get some sleep :) :) :)

Great. King Emoji now had my number.

Steve: Hey what should I save you as?

I turned away from my phone and shut my eyes.

 

* * *

 

One day.

Two day.

Three day.

“I was a little suspicious of that bakery– green tea bread just sounds weird– but the éclairs were _amazing_. I think I could eat a hundred of those,” Steve said, gazing at a menu pamphlet.

I leaned over and pointed at the custard bread.

“Is that really good?”

I pointed at it again. The fruit tarts. And the cream puffs. Then I sat back in my place on the bench and went back to not interacting.

“Noted,” he laughed and marked them with his pen.

It was…quiet. Peaceful.

I should have felt good. I should have…

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I stared at the sky, bright sun that seared into my head and made it throb, like the light didn’t belong there. Or like I didn’t belong in it.

 

* * *

 

I only realized I was leaning too far when he pulled me back. “Sorry,” he said and took his hands off right away. “It’s just– come on; you wanna sit on the bench?”

I pulled away from him and slid to the ground, my back against the wall. “Okay. Okay,” Steve said, but he was too unsteady to be soothing. He sat next to me, but a few inches away.

I didn’t care. Again.

Again.

I pulled out my phone and texted. Steve’s phone vibrated– no ringtone– and he pulled it out of his pocket.

“‘Why?’” he repeated. “Why what?”

I texted again. It was slow with one hand, but I did it. And I didn’t even have to send it; I just showed my phone to him.

‘Why do this. It’s not fun for you. Can’t feel good. Why. Why.’

He scrutinized the words. “That’s a lot of ‘why’s. Something tells me they’re not all for the same thing.”

I blinked. That was…perceptive in a way that made my stomach itch and bubble. But he sighed and looked elsewhere. At nothing. At the nothing that wasn’t me. “Some things just feel right, and some things just feel wrong,” he said after a minute. “Staying with you feels right. Leaving you alone feels wrong. And it’s not an obligation. It feels…peaceful, I guess. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Well.

At least one of us was at peace.

 

* * *

 

It’s a bad night.

 _Beyond_ bad.

To be fair it’s been a bad day too, but it’s easier to talk yourself out of bad ideas when it’s a bright, sunshine-y day. I had played into the mindgame of it for as long as I could.

And then the sun went down.

It’s quiet and dark and I had put about three lines in myself before realizing that it wasn’t going to work. And now I’m lying on the floor, wondering if the shower frame can hold my weight, or if it’s possible to drown myself in the tub. I don’t have enough pills.

My phone buzzes. With a Herculean amount of effort from limbs weighed down by darkness, I manage to get it to the floor where I can curl around and poke at it.

Steve: No bridge tonight?

I forgot about that. Should I say goodbye? It’s polite. But his friend knows where I live and might have told him; he might try to stop me and I haven’t even decided how I’m going to go.

‘No, sorry; too tired. Good night, Steve,’ I reply.

A short time later it buzzes again, I expect ‘good night.’ Enough emojis to make a twelve-year-old roll their eyes. But.

Steve: Where are you

I squint. I want to ask why, but I’m suspicious. So I ignore it and go back to considering my options.

Which all go out the window when someone knocks on my door.

I am too tired, too sad, too pathetic and ugly and awful to deal with this right now.

They knock more forcefully. My phone goes off again.

Steve: Please I know you’re not all right and I’ll break down the door if I have to

I sigh. That would be inconvenient. So I roll out of my blanket and go unlock the door.

Steve is there, blond hair mussed, breathing heavily. Absently I wonder if he ran from the bridge. He looks me up and down. “You look…like you’re having a bad day.”

I lean back, grab the handheld mirror from the entry table that’s currently covered in all sorts of shit (like the rest of my apartment) and I hold it up to his face. He laughs, but it’s weak.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

I shrug and open the door further. He steps gingerly, avoiding trash and…stuff. I note that it’s dim in here compared to the hall, but his eyes dart around and look at everything. Like he can’t believe the hellhole he’s crawled into.

Believe it, buddy.

“It’s…homey,” he says, standing in the main room. “Well-lived in.”

I snort, but then we’re back to awkward silence. Since I’m up and at ‘em, I go to the floor lamp to turn it up for more light than the single faint bulb I have going, and–

_crunch_

I whimper in reflex– it _hurts_ – but I turn on the light so I can see what’s going on. Big blond puppy Steve is almost unbearably concerned. “What happened?” he asks.

I look up at the ceiling where the lightbulb used to be. I mime it falling, dropping to the floor (like a bomb going off), and then…I shrug. I’d lost the energy and will to fix it when that had happened, but I don’t know how to convey that in a way he’d understand.

I use the ball of my foot to get back to the couch, and I cross it over my leg to see a large shard stuck almost dead center.

“Oh geeze, that’s a big one,” Steve says, leaning over my shoulder. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

I shake my head and rip out the biggest piece of glass. The blood flows pretty well for something that stings too much to be deep. It’s…mesmerizing.

“Oh– shit,” Steve says, concern etching into an otherwise steady voice. “Do you have any clean towels?”

I point to the hall closet without taking my eyes away from the red. Even with the lights on, the world is dim, but this, this is as vibrant as it gets. Life leaking out in the most non-metaphorical way. I can bleed. I can die.

But…do I _want_ to?

“Sorry for going through your bathroom, but I found enough supplies to clean up,” Steve says and sits on the ottoman in front of me. He gives me a hand towel. “Staunch the bleeding, then we’ll clean it up with this–” a wet hand towel, “–okay?”

I follow his orders, unthinking, unfeeling. Trying to be unfeeling at least, which– odd. It’s always too much feeling or not enough. Not enough. Never enough. Too much. Too…

“Hey.” Steve grips my shoulder and he is so warm he’s hot and the hold is so tight it tingles and he is so alive it makes me realize how _dead_ and yet painfully _alive_ I am too and the cavern in my chest crumbles and pain blooms everywhere and _I can’t breathe_.

 

Everything comes back and I’m…in Steve’s arms, actually, technically his lap, and I raise my head from his chest in a daze.

“Are you with me?” he asks. I look at him, confused, and he breathes out a heavy sigh. “Thank God. That was a pretty bad panic attack; I thought you were actually going to pass out.”

Pass out. Sleep. Now wouldn’t that be nice? I’m so tired. So fucking tired. But nothing ever eases the ache, the desire, the _need_ for sleep. Even dreams offer no respite; not anymore.

I say my name. My voice is barely a whisper but, somehow, Steve hears it. He repeats it. He looks at me, though, and says, “Are you telling me because you don’t plan to use it much longer, or because you want to be friends?”

He says the second part with a weird mix of sarcasm and hope and I can’t even begin to parse it. “I don’t know,” I whisper and hang my head.

He brings me to lean against his chest and his hand, large and wide, cups around my shoulder. I sit, and try not to wonder.

 

* * *

 

‘I got out of bed and brushed my teeth this morning.’

In retrospect, I shouldn’t have sent something like that to someone who had _just_ learned my name. But it was there and I sat– not dressed, but awake and aware and minty fresh– and waited. Which was stupid; he was probably busy–

My phone chimed with a notification and I scrambled to pick it up. _Pathetic_ , I thought but read the message nonetheless.

Steve: That’s great!

And about a gazillion smiley faces.

Steve: Shit  
Steve: Sam says a lot of emojis are sarcasm  
Steve: I’m not being sarcastic  
Steve: I’m proud of you

That was…it took my breath away. Because Steve knew how pathetic I was and still…

Me: It’s okay  
Me: I believe you :)  
Steve: <3  
Steve: Now Sam is saying hearts are inherently romantic  
Steve: I don’t know how to text

I smiled.

Me: Not inherently  
Me: I think your friend is fucking with you  
Steve: Damn it  
Steve: He is  
Steve: Brb have to beat him up

I snorted and set aside my phone. I was standing in my kitchen, thinking about _maybe_ eating, when it chimed again.

Steve: Are you hungry?  
Me: ?  
Steve: Do you want to meet at the bagel shop near your apt?

It was a lot. It felt like a lot.

Me: sorry  
Steve: It’s okay  
Steve: Maybe some other time  
Steve: But if not that’s okay too

And that was that. The rest of the day was quiet and peaceful. But I was walking along an edge. Despite my aching foot, I made my way to the bridge that night, and I cracked. Just a little; enough for a few tears to slip out. They dried on my face, making my skin feel cracked and brittle.

Steve wasn’t there. I was relieved.

 

* * *

 

Steve: I had a hard time getting out of bed today

I actually stopped what I was doing to acknowledge the sudden thought that Steve seemed to understand, at least in a few places, and was never overbearing even when he was insistent. And yet I had never thought to…

It was like getting hit with a brick made of guilt. I quickly texted back, ‘did you?’

Steve: Yeah :)  
Steve: Even went to the grocery store and finished a book  
Steve: Little victories

I rolled my eyes. Fucking overachiever.

Me: Sounds like a lot  
Me: Gold star for you  
Steve: Haha, thanks

I hesitated.

Me: Do you have someone looking out for you?  
Steve: Yes  
Steve: A few people  
Steve: One of whom literally pulled out the sheets to drop me onto the floor this morning

I smiled. Just a little, but…well…‘little victories,’ and whatnot.

Me: Good  
Me: About the people, not the bed thing  
Me: That one’s ‘ow’  
Steve: It’s okay  
Steve: I needed it

Fair enough.

 

* * *

 

“Here.”

I stared at the cup, and then I stared at Steve. He smiled like it wasn’t fucking cold as shit and held the coffee cup closer. I took it and sighed at the warmth seeping into my skin. It was only fall but the weather didn’t seem to know that.

“You're going to have to find a new place to spend your nights when winter comes,” Steve said and sipped his own drink.

I blew a raspberry. He laughed. When he looked at me he seemed happy. “Is it good?”

I nodded. “Th-…thank you.”

“No problem.”

 

* * *

 

I cleaned.

Not much but a little.

A little was something.

‘I picked up 13 pieces of trash and washed two dishes,’ I texted Steve.

He sent back thirteen thumbs-up, and two smiley faces.

I squinted at my screen.

Me: I’m beginning to suspect you know exactly how annoying that many emojis are and play dumb for your own amusement.  
Steve: I’m sure I :) don’t know :) what :) :) :) you :) mean :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :)

Yup.

Asshole.

 

* * *

 

I am rocking back and forth.

How fast can I dive off the edge?

Footsteps approach and I stop moving. Instead I dig my nails into my arm and let my foot shake out my nervous energy. The person sits next to me and Steve says, “Bad night?”

I almost try to answer, but I’d just vomit if I did.

Bad. Stupid. Awful. Evil. Dumb.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

“I don’t know if I’m gonna make it,” I croak, bent over myself and holding tight. “And I don’t know if it even _matters_.”

He’s quiet. At first. “Sometimes I wonder that myself.” He shifts. “I…help people, technically, but sometimes it feels like drops into a bucket. And someone else would take that place, if I left it.”

“You don’t know that,” I mutter and keep staring at the ground.

“I don’t,” he agrees. “But it’s just about impossible to think anything else, in that state.”

That it is.

That night I dream of being consumed.

 

When I woke to the sun, my chest ached.

I couldn’t get out of bed until the light went down.

 

* * *

 

“How’s tonight?”

I shrugged. He nodded and sat next to me, but he seemed stiff. Here it was, then. I couldn’t blame him. He was dealing with his own shit; he didn’t need–

“I have to go away tomorrow,” he said and cast a concerned look at me. “I’ll be gone for maybe a week. I’m…worried. I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

I looked at him for a few moments, gathering my thoughts. “My personal responsibility index starts and ends with goldfish,” I said. “And even goldfish are…” I put my hand flat and tilted it from side to side like a pinball board.

He barked a laugh and then covered his mouth. “Sorry,” he said and took his hand away to reveal a big smile. “No pets, I promise. I just was wondering if you could…if things get really bad, could you text me? I don’t care if it’s coherent or not, but if you need to get something out, if it’ll help you get through the day or night, then please…contact me. I won't be able to reply, but I’ll read it if you want and I won't if you tell me not to.”

I had to think about that. I didn’t know what to say, at first. “I can’t promise anything.”

“I know. And I can’t tell you what to do– it’s your life and in the end my word doesn’t mean as much as what you truly want.” He looked out at the sky and his sigh showed in a temporary burst of white before it faded and merged with the air. “But you’re trying, and I want to help. It’s nice to have a friend who…understands.”

I could sympathize. Sort of. “Work thing?” I asked, also staring out and away. The moon was nice; almost full. It was the kind of light that didn’t hurt, didn’t expect too much; that felt like it accepted the tired and the weak. Me. And Steve.

“Yeah,” he said regretfully.

I tried not to think of how he might not come back. I would… “Be safe,” I said.

“You too,” he said softly.

I looked down at the bench. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” he said, sounding relieved. He shifted and brought up his hand, but quickly put it back down.

I scooted closer, and after a moment he put his arm around me.

It was okay.

 

* * *

 

Trying was hard.

So _hard_.

I was going to call Steve but couldn’t bring myself to do it. I word-vomited into a journal until my hands shook too hard to hold a knife. I was still too wired, though, so I took a walk. I walked and walked and walked until I ended up at my bridge.

I breathed a little easier then. For better or worse, this was my safe place. It was either where the water and sky would soothe me enough to watch me slink home, or where I would eventually launch myself into them.

Footsteps sounded nearby and I let my eyes flick in their direction. A man, older, not as big as Steve but still decently sized, was walking in my general direction. I watched him long enough to see that he was coming for the bench.

I didn’t want to deal with people. Steve was an anomaly. I stood up and started to walk away.

“Wait!”

I didn’t.

He grabbed me.

I hit back at him and couldn’t quite make it; he had a tight grip on my jacket and though I kept him from getting a good grip on me, he had just enough hold to drag me towards the side of the bridge.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he cooed, like he was trying to _soothe_ me. “I’ve watched you, I know you’re just afraid; it’s okay. I’ll help free you. It will be okay!”

I hit his arm and dragged my feet, but I glanced at the water. Could I…could I just–

 _No_.

I had held on for too long to have some creepy asshole swoop in and try to kill-steal. My life was _mine_ and no one else’s.

But he was stronger than me and though I hit and kicked and pulled, we tussled and suddenly I was weightless.

I thought I heard Steve scream my name just before I hit the water.

 

Dark.

Cold.

It _hurt_.

I opened my eyes and the darkness stung. Alive still, but I felt weak and I couldn’t tell where the surface was. I heard something, like water breaking, but I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t even tell where it really came from. It wasn’t fair. My arms grew too heavy and my chest wanted to explode. I let my eyes shut. It wasn’t fair.

Dreamlike, arms wrapped around me and pulled. I could do nothing to help.

 

The next thing I knew, I was throwing up water on the bank and there were so many lights, so many _people_ …

“Easy,” Steve said.

“Steve,” I groaned and grabbed at him. He helped me sit up and held me without question. Those arms were– oh. Right. Made sense. Sometimes I just forgot how big he was.

“Hey Steve, let the paramedics in,” another familiar voice said. Sam? It must have been Sam.

“Okay,” Steve said and reluctantly started to let go. “I’ll just–”

I gripped his hand, terrified to be left alone with a bunch of strangers.

“–move over here,” Steve said, squeezed my hand, and kept a firm hold on it even as the paramedics moved in to poke and prod. One of them tried to stay cool and professional but ended up gushing over Steve. It was kind of cute. So cute that even Steve seemed reluctantly amused.

They let Steve ride with me and we were with two of the other paramedics. One of them cleared her throat and looked at Steve. “I, uh, I’m really sorry about Timothy; he didn’t mean to, uh…”

“It’s all right. He seems nice, it’s just…maybe not the best time,” Steve said and looked at me with a strained smile.

I shrugged. “I thought it was funny.”

He shook his head. “You had a crappy night; I’m pretty sure you just have a low bar.”

“I’m pretty sure ‘low bar’ is my default,” I said. “How– how did you know to come?”

“I didn’t, I just–” Steve visibly swallowed. “I got back a little while ago and Sam had left me a message, saying there was someone committing murders and making them look like suicides. You didn’t answer, so I went to the bridge first, just in case.”

“Good call,” I said. But he still looked so miserable. “What’s wrong?”

“If I hadn’t come back when I did–”

I pinched him and he jumped. “What was that for?” he asked and rubbed his arm.

“I once had a friend with anxiety who used to pinch herself when she started thinking of worst-case scenarios,” I said. “Maybe not therapist-approved, but it works in a…” I mimed a crab with my hand.

Despite his best effort not to (and oh how he tried), Steve laughed. He shook his head. “You can do better than that.”

I shrugged. “The worst could have happened. But it didn’t. Don’t focus on that; you’ll only hurt yourself.”

He stared at me for several moments, then leaned in and hugged me tight. “That sounds like something you might know about,” he murmured too low to be heard by anyone else.

I dug my head into his chest so hard it hurt. “I try. I _try_ ,” I said so low that _I_ barely heard.

“I know,” he whispered and held me tighter. “And I’m proud of you.”

“Low bar,” I muttered. I was tired.

“Maybe,” he said and ran his hand over my head. “But it’s our bar, and as long as we make it then what else matters?”

I couldn’t argue with that.

 

* * *

 

Thinking about the apartment as a whole was overwhelming, so I compartmentalized. And then I compartmentalized some more.

First I opened the blinds and curtains, and one window– ‘cause it was pretty chilly. The fresh air was good though. Even slightly energizing. I could do this. I could do this. And if not…my bed still had sheets on it I could crawl into. But I promised myself first to give it my best shot.

As I surveyed my kingdom of dirt, someone knocked on the door. I was wary, even with Mr. Murder locked up in jail, but a peep showed me Steve and his friend Sam. When I opened the door, though, I almost knocked my head into a bunch of flowers.

“Oh, um…these are nice. Thank you,” I said and took them to the counter. They were light blue and yellow and white and even came in their own vase.

“Wow; I’ve never seen this place with sunlight before,” Steve said and stopped to hug me.

“It shows the dust pretty good,” I said. I wasn’t sure how to greet Sam but he opened his arms and I went in for it, because what the hell. It was a good choice; Sam gave an excellent hug.

“I can’t believe you’re cleaning just a couple days after you were almost murdered,” he said.

“It’s nice to curl up in bed when things are picked up and it doesn’t smell so bad,” I said.

“I can see that.” Steve looked around. “Do you need help?”

“For the record, _he’s_ offering that,” Sam said and hopped onto a stool at the counter. “I can only offer you eye candy and sarcastic commentary.”

He was a man of his word, sitting there like he belonged in a magazine and firing off quips like he was getting paid per line. One of his jokes made Steve laugh so hard he doubled over and couldn’t get straight for almost half a minute. I smiled at the sight.

It was exhausting though, pleasant as Steve and Sam were, and I got to the point where I had to stand and assess myself. How did you politely tell someone to get lost?

“Tired?” Steve asked.

I nodded and accepted his and Sam’s hugs. Sam actually grabbed the trash bag and went on ahead, telling Steve he’d be waiting outside. And then it was just Steve and me.

“Thanks. Again,” I said and initiated a hug of my own.

“Anytime,” he said. As we pulled back he added, “You have my number. If you want to leave the house, just text. I’ll walk with you.”

I nodded, and after one small squeeze of my shoulder, he left. I stood there, taking in the moment. Then I went around dimming the light– not blocking it out entirely, just making the space more comfortable. Then I got into my pajamas, crawled into bed, and turned on the TV as I swiped through my phone. But all of that happened after I had cleaned my home, socialized, and had a little food. Now it was time to rest.

It was a low bar.

But it was mine.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [On the bridge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18919159) by [Wolf_in_the_Rain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_in_the_Rain/pseuds/Wolf_in_the_Rain)




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